#leparct

[altruims]

"i knew, after a while, that i had to do something with that anger." ✉️ / @leparct

anger ? the sheer disbelief he was hearing right now after everything they’d been through , or at least thought he knew her . the majority part of him of course still cares for her but making it seem like everything they had shared was never real almost felt like a drop of trust , or really it just felt like she was dropping him as if he never mattered . “—anger? No I’m-“ speechless was what he was. there’s a gasp for quick breath as he slightly scoffed , “ I just , I refuse to believe that nothing was real or whatever you’re saying right now. ” A THOUSAND QUESTIONS ALREADY CLOUDING HIS MIND LIKE EQUATIONS THAT HE COULD NEVER SOLVE . couldn’t even decipher the feeling that’s forming , if it was betrayal or disappointment . or simply that he wants to still believe she’s pulling some ridiculous prank on him .

taking a deep breath , he could feel his own tension raising into what did seem like anger building up . how did we even get here . “—so after all this time , you were just thinking I’m as dumb as everyone else says I am , that this never mattered-that i never mattered , is that what we’re doing? ” the familiar feeling intertwining with trauma , a feeling that he had slowly tucked away & forgotten the more he was with her , of the boy that roamed his own empty home wishing to be wanted by someone , to matter to someone just proving right in front of him that everyone leaves or his existence was simply just disposable .

[self-1ess]

@leparct ( . . . and he looked at me, Like there was something in me worth looking at. ) it’s the eyes. it’s always the eyes. they never lie.

[self-1ess]

as long as you’re around me, I know I’ll be fine / and when you whisper, when you say my name, i run to you. i don’t just walk, i’m running back to you. / I’ll take my chances. ( @leparct )

[self-1ess]

also I don’t know who will write with steve a lot here since i never logged back into his acc (lmao ripp) so idk who still wants him anyways, but I’d love to keep building his dynamics nonetheless if interest is still there, maybe this multi will be better for that anyways. but for ships ( Steve’s main ship is @leparct . ) any past, present and future dynamics will have remnants and memories of her existence in his life + character development.

[puncia]

SLEEPOVER :  for one muse to stay the night at the other’s place　+　INSOMNIA :  for one muse to find the other still awake at 3am.　⌖　@leparct　

It’s all wrong.　Somehow,　some way,　it shouldn’t be like this.　You are supposed to be at odds forever,　planning a swift and competent demise to befall her in retaliation for what she did to Professor.　It wouldn’t be easy　⸻　she knows you’re onto her,　that you’re the only asset making waves in reclaiming the IRG’s missing property,　and that’s the fun part,　like a cat taunting the vermin it’s taken as prey　⸻　but you’ve never been one for easy.　It fundamentally opposes the criteria for your existence.　How strange it is that the urge has entirely subsided,　slipped precariously through your fickle,　cost fingers.　You aren’t sure why.　You’ve never been sure of anything,　and have never found it in yourself to question.　Weapons do not think for themselves,　do not have the capacity for original thought,　so flash those sweet,　dead eyes,　and do what you’re commanded to.

Ah,　but you’re still not thinking for yourself,　now.　You have been parked in front of a full-body mirror,　staring to a blank mien that stares back without scrutiny.　A dress-up doll clad in whatever Rebecca proposes you try 　(Rebecca　⸻　the name will never get easier to use　/　you don’t understand the hype around names because Leopard has always suited you well enough,　and you’ve always buckled at the prospect of Professor using it on you,　affirming your very purpose with it)　while you blink at your reflection,　seeing if any emotion will stir.

Nothing yet. You come to her with a dilemma,　and for reasons you cannot discern,　she wants to help.　There’s a boy,　a pesky boy,　turning up repeatedly in your automatic thought processes　⸻　what does it mean,　really?　You feel helpless,　what with your heart fighting to pry itself from your ribcage,　spread gore and crimson onto the floor like a gaping gunshot wound.　The embarrassment this liability floods you with is unprecedented,　a fracture,　another,　another,　cascading like spindly veins throughout your armature.　It’s stupid.　You want him to like what you wear,　to pay attention to the way you present yourself in the downtime,　even when it’s not about the sex or the midnight blue satin you’ve ensconced yourself in.　You want to kill him and you want to keep a watchful eye on him,　and that’s what makes this so dire.　Maybe Rebecca will understand you.

❛❛　This feels stupid.　❜❜　You speak flatly,　still fretting at the it in the mirror,　boring into you.　❛❛　I look stupid.　❜❜　Style,　to you,　is a fleeting afterthought.　Garments you’re most oft clad in are reminiscent of your training uniforms,　all stiff,　uncomfortable leather sculpted to your frame.　Another option would be divine,　for all those casual pursuits,　showing off shreds of personality the world demands you be in possession of.　❛❛　It shouldn’t matter what I wear.　It’s superficial.　❜❜　And here you are,　having sought the expertise of free-thinking butterfly regardless.

[puncia]

SURPRISE :  for one muse to come home and find the other already inside.　⌖　@leparct.

If anyone was going to do the job,　it would always be you.　And if you had access to the feeling　⸻　if such rudimentary spoils hadn’t been encased within you　⸻　perhaps you’d even envy Hare’s freedom.　Years and years has she drank it in for all its worth,　imbibed such sweet nectar while you are the killing instrument,　just as you’ve learned to like it.　That’s exactly why you’ve come to strip her of it.　(Professor looks to you with stillness,　an encapsulation of anhedonia,　and he demands that you bring her back.　Warm to the touch or a stiff like the rest　⸻　dead or alive　⸻　sinner or saint.)　She’s always been a talent.　But you’re better.　Professor has commanded such,　insisted upon your isolation to ensure the other agents did not sully you,　dampening your whetted skill-set.　Naturally,　it leads you here.　Not your favorite way to conduct business:　abyssal,　the shadows are your strength.　Stalking her as valuable prey.　But there is a roadblock or fortress,　vast in its repudiation of sending a bullet into her skull.　You don’t want anything,　and you especially don’t want that.　Maybe more fun is to be had with her brought back among the living.　You do not question it.　You haven’t been instructed to do so.

Predator always comes out on top,　no matter how darling lagomorph hides away.　Your weapons are concealed,　though the burden of connection declares that doomed She knows exactly where and how they lay flat against skin.　All that is left for you to do is wait.　If you were capable of it,　you’d make yourself at home.　Recline on furniture.　Something.　You must be prepared for whatever reaction she presents,　though.　Not a moment in your life have you ever felt prepared to relax.　There is no use in starting now.　Then,　as it stands,　you have no idea what home is.

But she does.　

Say hello,　Hare.　Or Rebecca.　Or whatever juvenile thing it is you refer to yourself as.　You can’t outrun the truth.